


Paris's Finest

by Verabird



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Sweeney Todd - Sondheim/Wheeler
Genre: Case Fic, Delicious pies, M/M, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: Javert can't bring himself to arrest Valjean. Not after all he's done, but Parisian crime waits for no man and certainly not for Javert's inner crisis. There's a missing girl and not much time to spare, but Javert is Paris's finest, and if anyone can find one person in a city of thousands during painful turmoil then it must be him.





	Paris's Finest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



“Riot. Down by the river.”

“Have the people not been satisfied with riots?” Javert could sense the dangerous mood of Paris. Like a swarm of angry bees waiting to sting, the people had found safety and destruction in numbers, and it seemed that no matter how many times a rebellion was quashed another rose up in its place. “By God have we not had enough.”

M. Gisquet gave Javert a wry smile, his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight of the Prefecture. It was late, the first evening of April, unusually cold, but the fires of torches and burnt buildings lit the night with a warm haze. Javert had caught the noise of the crowd, the fierce nerve of the mob as it surged along the river and he had hoped for the best but feared the worst, and now Gisquet’s spies had returned and confirmed the news. Javert should have been among them, but Gisquet had kept him back to discuss strategy, for at first they had wondered if it was an organised army. The spies had confirmed that the mob was armed only with torches and the tools of traders, marketeers, apprentices, and even tailors wielded shears, but there was nary a rifle nor bayonet among them.

“It would appear not.” Gisquet returned to the large map of Paris that was framed against the wall, the expanse of red wallpaper decorated with nothing else but the colourfully painted streets. Gisquet began to work with string and tiny copper flags with sharp points, his hands shook slightly but it was unnoticeable from a distance, and despite his lack of military skill he pulled together something solid. “You can handle it?”

“My men have been itching for something like this,” Javert said, a hint of disapproval in his voice. “They have been bored.”

“Then you must ensure they act with caution and not the fire of anticipation.”

Javert turned his head to the window. The sound of bellowing and braying was loud though the message of the shouting voices was muddled in the distance. Gisquet had a bitter smile on his lips as he followed Javert’s glance to the window.

“I have no fear of them,” Gisquet said. He rested on the back of his heels and sighed. “They will be defeated easily enough, but the casualties, I worry about them, the more ordinary men we gun down the more the mob turns against us.”

“Surely a few loud voices cannot turn the whole of Paris against us.”

Gisquet’s eyes flicked to the painting of King Louis Philippe that hung grandly on the wall above the fireplace. His sharp red uniform glowed softly along with the fire, his high brow and dark eyes surveying the room with an alarming realness. “You would not think so, and yet..” He sighed again before turning back to Javert with more firmness in his voice. “If you head to the lower bank in disguise and skew their front line we will have the angle to attack from the steps above.”

“You will shoot into the curved line rather than the straight one?”

“It will disorientate them and the target will be larger. Most will run, a few will nobly stay for us to capture and question, but all will panic, and the riot will be over as quickly as it has sprung on us. You can manage?”

Javert nodded seriously. “I can Monsieur, but you would perish a riot of this size with a single lined up shot?”

Gisquet smiled at him. “We learn from our mistakes Inspector, we do not grant them the luxury of defense anymore.”

* * *

 

With the cap pulled down over his face and the dark brown coat wrapped tight around him Javert tripped through the swarm of angry citizens, down the stone steps that lead to the banks, and towards the front edge of the mob. Here was where he would find the leaders and some often were agreeable enough to talk about their causes to suspicious looking strangers. It was easy enough to find the group, sailors, dark blue short coats and the telltale white hats, all stood facing the yelling crowd, raising fists and shouting back and riling them up. Javert crept a little closer and found a vantage spot beside a barrel where he could duck slightly. He listened for a few moments gathering the crux of the issue which seemed to be something about imports and taxes, problems best left to educated minds, and yet the ordinary citizen always seemed to think it a right to know what the government did with their money. Javert shook his head in distaste. It was none of these men’s business what was decided of the money, only that every lawful working man must pay his fair share to the crown, and in turn he would reap the benefits. Javert knew this well.

The sailors had stepped off onto the docks from a trade ship hailing in from the West Indies and they spoke of the riotous ideas that sprung up on the shores of rebellious islands. Javert counted the word equality among the furious shouts more times than he cared to hear it, and he supposed these men did not understand that the cycle of life ensured the need for the rich, otherwise who would employ and pay the poor. But the sailor’s words painted vivid depictions of men who were all the same, and women who spoke in the local parliaments, and children who did not work but who learned instead. It was easy enough for Javert to fall into step with them, he nodded at their ideas, he shouted in agreement, and he knew there was no chance that these men gone so long on their travels would recognise him.

“They do not care about us! We are dirt to them! We die and they feed on our corpses! Who here has lost a father? A mother? A child?” A roar from the crowd. “What is done? Nothing! Men disappear up and down Rue Fleet and they do nothing!”

“The people cannot hear you Monsieur,” Javert shouted above the roar of the crowd. “They cannot see you.”

The most passionate of the sailors, a man with red hair and a painful looking sunburn noticeable even in the dark, turned to him. He paused mid sentence, his hand raised in a fist above his head, and he glared with an expression designed to melt stone. Javert stared back, emotionless. “Perhaps you could stand on that barrel Monsieur?” Javert gestured, sweeping his hand back so that the men behind him would automatically curl back into a line. The barrel was close to the river beside a pile of ropes and crates, far away from the escape provided by the stairs that led up to the road above. The sailor processed Javert’s words for a few moments then nodded with his lip between his teeth and hurried to the barrel. Javert helped him up onto it with the gesture of a gentlemen, and once the crowd had shifted into its new position to hear him speak, a curved line which faced the parapet above where Javert knew gunmen lay in wait, he allowed himself to be swallowed back into the mob. He slipped away down the bank towards the haunt of a few watermen who had been tipped off prior to Javert’s arrival. They’d left a simple boat behind, tied with a loose knot, and a free oar. Javert helped himself into it and pushed back from the shore.

He heard the gun shots screech across the stone followed by screams and then saw the scrabble of bodies try rush into a bottleneck at the river’s stone steps. Javert saw the flash of red and blue of the national guard waiting at the top to arrest them. Most of the rioters were trying to flee towards the East where the steps were, a few continuing to run along the cobbled bank, but Javert had posted men at every set of steps for over a mile. The few that were running to the west were perhaps the bravest, for they were running into the riflemen. He heard a shot and watched one fall to his knees, and another man behind him seemed to fly backwards and collapse into the ground. The men turned about and began to run away from the guns.

Javert smiled. Everything in its place, everything according to plan. He saw the sailor, expression full of fright, blood on his hand, and he looked out into the dark waters. He took a running jump and dove into the Seine. The man was a strong swimmer and was making a beeline for the other side, though it was obvious he hadn’t expected such a strong current. As his head bobbed up and down for air he took it in desperate gasps and coughs. He’d clearly swallowed a lot of water by the time he reached the small boat. Javert frowned as the sailor hooked his hands into the dipped side and pulled himself up just enough to speak to Javert.

“Monsieur, I will pay you greatly to give me passage.”

Javert snorted. This man had no money, and now Javert was coming to realise with amusement that in the dark mists of the late evening the sailor hadn’t seen just who was rowing the boat. The sailor wiped water from his eyes and blinked rapidly, still coughing intermittently. Javert leaned forward, a dark looming spectre, and smiled with all his teeth. The sailor almost let go at the sight.

“You?” He gasped quite dramatically. “A stroke of luck! Help me aboard.”

“Unfortunately Monsieur I am not with your cause. I am Inspector Javert, first class, and I am very much against it.” He drew his pistol from his waist and trained it on the man’s bobbing head. “Would you prefer to swim back or be shot?”

The sailor took a deep breath and sunk below the current, Javert watched the dark shape drift downstream and then rise into the air a good distance away. He continued swimming to the other bank, now clear of the boat. Javert aimed his pistol and shot, missing the man’s head by barely an inch, he yelped and scrabbled in the water.

“You would do best to swim back Monsieur, better arrest than death.”

The sailor spat at him, or perhaps he was just overcome with water, either way Javert smiled satisfied as he began to reluctantly swim back to the bank where pandemonium was still in outbreak. With a job well done Javert sat back in the boat to witness the rest of the proceedings and to catch any other water-bound escapees. The torches of the national guard lit up the stone bank quite splendidly in the moonlight, tones of green and blue blending into the slate grey that defined the structure of Paris itself. There was little colour among the people, mostly decked in muted browns and blacks, the occasional splash of red or green. Javert heard the clash of wood behind him and spun to see which miscreant had managed to slip past him in the darkened water, but against the other bank was a sturdy dock bearing official standards, and lapping against the wood was a decent sized craft. A young man was holding his hand out to a younger woman, helping her onto the dock. She clutched the pale blue satin of her dress by her thigh to keep it out the way as she climbed up, and Javert caught the glimpse of a relieved and grateful smile beneath her bonnet. Peeking out from behind the delicate straw and ribbon was a head of bright yellow curls, visible in the darkness, and Javert noticed also a ring upon her finger. These were not rioters and yet they were out too late for normal business.

“Good evening Monsieur, Mademoiselle,” He said loudly as his own boat approached the dock. “May I ask your business? My name is Inspector Javert.” He pulled his badge from his pocket and held it out, knowing that he didn’t appear much like an Inspector in his spying outfit.

The young man looked up, instantly flustered, Javert thought he reminded him of someone he might have once known. “Monsieur, good evening, the roads were closed by patrols,” He said as if this were explanation enough.

“You live here?” Javert looked between them, they were a bourgeois couple to be sure, so there couldn’t be much amiss.

“No Monsieur.” The man paused, searching. “My mother does, but she is very sick you see, and we were called over urgently by the family doctor.” He gestured to the young woman who had tucked a stray yellow strand of hair into her bonnet. “This is my sister.”

“Ah yes, of course.” Javert nodded, satisfied. “Take care, the riot has been undermined, but you can never be too careful in these streets.” He tipped his hat and rowed back to the side of the river which housed the rioters, national guard, and Prefecture which would soon house his report.

They had a lot of manpower to process the rioters so the evening went by quick enough. The officers themselves had a lot to handle, but the physical shifting of rioters from cells to interrogation and back again was being undertaken by a selection of the National Guard. Gisquet was overseeing it all, and his system was efficient, yet Javert thought it contained more mercy than he would have deigned to give.

“We let the majority of them return to their families,” He said to Javert as the pair of them stood watching the commotion overtaking the Prefecture. “We shake them up, understand their motives, but ultimately they will remember being treated with kindness and mercy by the state, wives and children at home will be grateful to us, workers won’t be missing at their posts tomorrow, Paris will continue to run. You understand?”

Javert nodded, though to be honest he didn’t fully comprehend. Surely these were all criminals and they all deserved to be charged, not just the leaders. It was not how he would have done things. Perhaps that was something Gisquet had going for him in this role, though he had not the brain of a policeman, he most assuredly had the mind of a politician.

The first signs of a pink sunrise were appearing at the top corners of the Prefecture’s windows and Javert had noticed the men slowing down considerably in their work as the last of the rioters was filed away and then sent packing. Gisquet clapped Javert on the shoulder then descended the stairs into the main body of the Prefecture in order to thank his men for their service through the night and shake hands with the members of the National Guard who had kept order and peace. Javert watched him as he spoke a few words to a man in the familiar red and blue uniform at the far end of the hall. Gisquet was smiling, though his eyes were heavy with tiredness, and without an ounce of suspicion he shook the hand of the man whom Javert knew to be a thief first and foremost. A parole-breaker, a saviour, a villain, a saint.

Surrounded now by officers and armed guards Javert knew he should arrest Valjean, as he should have done on that fateful night back in June, and he could not say for certain what was preventing him. Some kind of unspoken honour had emerged between them. Javert owed Valjean his life and to arrest Valjean would lead to his execution, Javert was sure of that. There was still time to make a decision. Javert’s hesitation could not be held against him. Valjean had come when the National Guard had been called, he had come to do his duty, Javert knew that he would come when he finally called for his arrest. He waited for Gisquet to move on before he followed his path towards Valjean. As if sensing his presence Valjean looked up and caught Javert’s gaze. His expression was entirely neutral except for a crease on his brow. Javert reflected that he appeared much older than he ever had before. He’d known Valjean for years but it was now on this morning that he truly noticed how much Valjean had aged.

“Will you do it now?”

Javert frowned. “Do what?”

“Arrest me.” Valjean gestured to the stack of arrest papers that was arranged on the desk in front of him. “It would be a convenient time.”

“I’m not…I don’t..” Javert considered slamming his fist down in frustration but thought better of it. “I am not going to arrest you.”

“Now or ever?”

“I cannot answer that.” The men around them were gathering up overcoats and getting ready to set off home for whatever rest they could manage before the next day officially began. “I will walk you home.”

“Inspector, there’s no need.”

Javert took hold of Valjean’s forearm in a vice-like grip and steered him towards the large entrance doors, the gesture signifying his response. He would walk Valjean home whether Valjean wanted him to or not. Valjean meekly followed because he would not exert force against that grip, something that Javert knew, and so together they made an odd couple navigating the cobbled streets that led to the house on Rue Plumet.

They walked in silence for a long while and eventually Javert let go of Valjean’s arm. They fell in step together. “You are well?” Valjean asked after the silence grew too much for him to bear.

“Adequate. Do you often think after my health?”

Valjean wet his lips nervously. “I don’t wish you to come to harm if that’s what you imply.”

“You see me often enough to know what state of health I’m in.”

This was true. Since June the patrols on the streets had been increased and Valjean’s National Guard duties with them. Javert had watched as Valjean performed the duties for king and country without a whisper of complaint, and as Valjean was marched in and out of the Prefecture by his superiors he considered the act a usurpation of justice, yet Javert himself was saying nothing to the contrary. He had even had command of Valjean for an afternoon as they patrolled after nightfall. They had ignored each other, but Javert could feel his unease grow inside him like a fever. He had searched for Valjean for so long but now he wished the man would just go away.

“Why have you not fled yet?” Javert looked at Valjean. He appeared so calm, it angered Javert, it unnerved him. “I’m sure you haven’t squandered all that stolen money yet, why not take it and run?”

“That money was earned honestly, and besides, it isn’t mine. Do you not know why I have stayed?”

“Of course I do not know.”

“I am waiting for you to arrest me.”

“That is a stupid reason.”

They rounded a corner and a fiacre came out of nowhere, speeding down the street, the horse’s head pulled down as it galloped. Valjean put out his hand to stop Javert from going any further into the road, drawing him away from the path of the horse and carriage. Javert grasped Valjean’s hand and shoved it away.

“And would you stop that?”

“Stop what?” Valjean looked after the fiacre with a disapproving frown, then it looked as if he might reach for Javert’s arm again. He shook his head lightly and continued down the street.

Javert let out an angry huff of breath. “I do not know if I will arrest you, I cannot say for certain that God will be on my side if I do.”

“Is it not the Law’s side you care about? Not God’s?”

“They are one and the same,” Javert said quickly. “I cannot do what some force within me compels me not to. I cannot overcome it.”

“Some men might call that your conscience.” Valjean allowed himself a small smile at Javert’s expense. “I feel it is cruel of you to keep me in this suspense. If you will not arrest me then you must say and I can leave, but I am a man of my word and I promised I would give myself up to you.”

“Cruel? It was cruel of you to—” Javert swallowed. “And you keep trying.”

“It was my duty to save you.”

“You could have walked free.” Javert’s words were coming in a breathless whisper now, speaking to himself, trying to convince himself of their truth. “I am the only man who knows your identity and you should have let me drown. It should never had come to that, you should have shot me first.”

He stopped short in the middle of the street and grasped Valjean by his shoulders, shaking him and pushing him up against the wall. He beheld him, this old man with white hair who wouldn’t lift a muscle to defend himself, it infuriated him. “You should have shot me when you had the chance. By God why didn’t you?”

“Javert I…”

“Inspector! Inspector Javert!”

“Inspector Javert, it seems I should have done a lot of things. But I didn’t, and I don’t regret it, and you are not the only man who knows my identity.”

“Ah you have agents in the city, I should have known.”

“No, it is not that.” Valjean took the opportunity of Javert’s slackened grip to extract himself from Javert’s fists. “My son-in-law is aware.”

“He hasn’t turned you in,” Javert noted. “Loyalty? Do you pay him?”

“Neither. But he doesn’t want me in his life, nor in my daughter’s life, for her sake I stay away.”

Javert paused for a moment, then he grasped Valjean’s arm and pulled him back along the street, setting off at a pace. “Then he is a fool.”

“No, he is right. She deserves to be free of me.”

“I can only hope for such things.”

Valjean smiled. “I doubt we shall ever be free of each other.”

“That is your fault not mine.”

Valjean shrugged. “If it means your life is saved then I am glad to be at fault.”

“You are insufferable.”

They had arrived at the house on Rue Plumet. Valjean took out the key to the large wrought iron gate and turned to Javert. “Would you join me for some breakfast?”

Javert laughed, but the sound was harsh and uninviting. “Eat with you?” As if they were equals, perish the thought. “That is an unacceptable suggestion.”

“Just a coffee then? I have a sneaking suspicion that you will turn around from here and go straight back from whence we came without a wink of sleep.”

Javert shifted uncomfortably. Valjean was right, but the words fell upon him like an itching powder. “No, I can do without your hospitality.”

“Then why did you insist on walking me home?”

“I thought perhaps I might finally have the courage to clap you in irons.”

Valjean opened the gate and stepped inside, closing it behind him and locking it. He held two of the black iron bars in his hands and leaned his forehead on one as he looked at Javert. “You might consider this image,” He said carefully. “Me behind these bars, and perhaps your conscience will tell you if it is correct.”

Javert wearily raised his head and looked at Valjean behind the bars, in the cell of his own making, and he sighed. He wouldn’t arrest Valjean today, and he wouldn’t arrest him tomorrow, but one day he would. One day.

* * *

 

It was late on a sunday evening and Javert was the last remaining member of the Prefecture floor still working. Gisquet’s candle burned low in his office, but out here Javert was alone. He was enjoying the peace. He hadn’t seen Valjean since that morning just over a week ago and he was grateful for the lack of Valjean’s presence. His mind felt clear and he felt ready and willing to undertake the important work that he was renowned for. The large doors to the Prefecture hadn’t been oiled in a century and so the heavy sound of them creaking open was excruciating in the silence. Javert looked up and saw a tall man, his top hat elongating him further, his expression cloudy on his dark face, his brow thick, his large smooth hand curled round the silver head of a cane, his other hand holding a pale white handkerchief. He commanded attention and Javert knew he was in the presence of a man of considerable rank. He rose to his feet automatically and hurried over to bow.

“Good evening Monsieur, I am Inspector Javert.”

The imposing man looked down his nose at Javert and sniffed pointedly. Javert felt a sudden urge to reach out and kiss his hand though he couldn’t fathom from where in him such an instinct came.

“I wish to speak to the Prefect.” The man’s voice suited him. Deep and rumbling, imperious, it carried across the empty hall, loud enough that it spread under the cracks of Gisquet’s office door. Gisquet must have heard the booming statement for his door opened soon after. Gisquet wasn’t dressed to receive company, he was in his shirtsleeves and had clearly partaken in one too many evening brandies. He had his frock coat in his hands and was slipping it on as he made his way towards where Javert stood.

“But of course! Of course!” Gisquet smiled and shook the man’s hand enthusiastically. “I have seen you in court many times Monsieur. Inspector, you’d like our Judge Turpin here, he is quite ruthless, very much your style.”

A judge, it all made sense to Javert now. He’d instinctively wanted to bow to this man and it turned out he was a judge, it was very appropriate.

“You wish to speak to me? But of course. I’m afraid I have sent home anyone who might bring us refreshments.”

“There is no need,” the Judge replied. “My matter is quite urgent, we won’t have time for frivolity.”

“I see, then follow me with haste, we can talk in my office.” He pulled a letter from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Javert. “Have a read of that to keep you occupied Inspector.” He smiled before guiding Judge Turpin into his office.

Javert glanced at the back of the letter and saw Gisquet’s name in cursive writing above the address and wondered why Gisquet had handed him a personal letter. Not wanting to disobey an order he slipped out the parchment and sat at a nearby desk in order to read. The ink was dark, marking it as an expensive mix, and the writing was free and flamboyant, the author clearly had no sense of economics when it came to how much paper they were willing to use. The letter was eloquent and each word a drop of nectar to Javert, who had not previously considered himself interested in what retired Secretaires amused themselves with in the heat of the south, but this particular author he cared for immensely. He was jealous that Monsieur Chabouillet had written to Gisquet and not to him, he was almost hurt that his former patron hadn’t thought to write him a single letter since he had moved down to his estate. It seemed he now lived a life of leisure consisting of literature, art, and lots and lots of wine, and not a single thought for his protege. There was a pang in his chest as he ran his thumb over Chabouillet’s signature.

He didn’t have time to dwell for a few seconds later Gisquet’s office door had swung open and Gisquet, expression less enthusiastic than before was gesturing to him. Javert dropped the letter and leapt to his feet, answering the call at once. The Judge was sitting grim-faced, his cane still clutched in his hand.

“Paris’s finest,” Gisquet said firmly. Javert wondered who he was trying to convince. “Would you repeat the story for the Inspector?”

“I’m not sure if I trust him.” Again the Judge’s nose wrinkled and he sniffed in that pointed manner.

“My good fellow,” Gisquet said. “I do hope you don’t expect me to search Paris single-handed? I fear I wouldn’t be much good at the task.”

The Judge made a non-committal grunting sound and Javert frowned looking between the two of them.

“Very well,” The Judge said finally. “But I wish no one else to be told the details of this affair, it is sordid enough as it is.” There was another pause as the Judge drew in breath, and then further silence as he reconsidered telling his tale, but eventually he began to spill. “It is my daughter, she is missing, I have reason to believe she has been stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“I too remarked on the choice of word,” Gisquet said, clearly pleased with himself that he’d picked up on the same thing that his prized Inspector was choosing to linger on. “It lends a certain passion to the case.”

The Judge frowned, displeased. “There is no passion,” He said quickly. “At least not on my behalf. I know the potential thief, he is nothing more than a sailor, however he is highly strung, and it seems he has many friends.”

“Young love,” Gisquet mused, his finger on the point of his quill as he swirled it in a circle in his inkstand. “I am certain she will return eventually, these affairs usually run their course.”

“Perhaps,” Javert said quietly. “Monsieur there is more to this case is there not?”

“Indeed.” The judge sighed heavily. “It was my intention to marry her this morning.”

Gisquet turned to Javert with a smile that Javert considered far too mischievous for the tone of the conversation. He was clearly waiting to see if Javert would work something out.

“You are this young woman’s guardian I take it? Not her father.”

“Yes.” The Judge nodded and withdrew a small oval frame with a miniature portrait stamped within. “I believe it is the boy’s intention to ruin me and my reputation, that is why he has stolen her, not because he wishes her for himself.” He passed the frame to Javert. “This is a good likeness, you will not find another girl in Paris that shares her face.”

Javert felt the frame between his fingers then pressed a hidden latch at the back, the frame fell apart in his hands revealing a small lock of hair tied with a blue ribbon. Yellow. Bright yellow. Javert held the portrait close to a nearby candle and stared at it intently.

“A sailor you say?”

Javert was thinking back to the night of riot, but he was seeing not the riot on the West bank of the Seine but the scene on the East, a young man and a young woman. The young woman tucking a yellow curl back underneath her bonnet, their nervous apprehension as he approached, the young man’s nervousness, his unease. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the moment closer, but it was already slipping away. Would he mention this to Judge Turpin? Not yet.

He rose and pocketed the miniature along with the lock of hair and made for the door. Gisquet lay back in his chair and beamed. “Paris’s finest. He’s a true bloodhound, already on the scent, you watch he’ll have her back by morning.”

* * *

 

Gisquet had been disappointed when Javert returned the next morning without Johanna in his grasp, but he’d assured Judge Turpin that it would be no more than a day or two and Javert was surely onto something. When Gisquet had ushered the Judge from the building he’d brought Javert into his office and sat him down, pouring out a large measure of brandy for himself.

“Find her soon or I’ll have to start calling you Paris’s second finest.”

Javert told Gisquet then of what he’d seen in the boat on the evening of the riot. He described the couple he’d watched clamber onto the dock from their small boat, the glimpse of the young woman’s hair, the strange fineness of the young man’s coat.

“I am sure it must have been them.”

“You have already been to the dock I take it?”

“I went straight there, but it has been a long time. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. But that was a week ago and the Judge only came to us last night.”

Gisquet steepled his fingers. “Correct, but he was not fully honest with us. The man is clearly delusional as I’m sure you will have noticed.”

Javert didn’t know how to react. He shifted uncomfortably at this blatant sleight to a superior, but he also couldn’t bare to contradict Gisquet. “He claims the girl is desperately in love with him, but he failed to mention he’s had her locked in a sanitarium for several days. It wasn’t convenient for him to reveal his ignoble scheme, but it has been too long and he is tired of waiting for her to return of her own accord, and so he comes to the police. As I see it a young woman was imprisoned against her will for not wishing to marry her old and ugly guardian—”

“Monsieur!”

“—and she was rescued by the young man she really loves. Now what do we do as police? What is our role in society? To correct injustice of course, to find imbalance and right it, but in this case I see a wrong that has been committed, but it is the same man who has committed the wrong that comes to us for help. What do we do? Do we return this poor girl to his clutches? Do we Javert?”

“Yes Monsieur!”

Gisquet smiled and poured himself some more brandy. “Perhaps I am simply taken in my this tale, it appeals to my amorous side, I am too sensitive, but I do not wish to side with the villain.”

“But Monsieur, in the eyes of the law he is not the villain.”

“Correct. This is a matter of property law is it not? His property has been stolen, perhaps even damaged, we must return it to him. Damn the girl’s feelings!”

“It is not a question of feelings Monsieur.”

“Isn’t it?” Gisquet took a long drink then sat back to survey his Inspector, amused that his rigid mind was spiraling into confused knots. “We must protect the law of course, but he must protect our citizens too, and surely we must protect this young woman.”

Javert stared at Gisquet, dumbfounded. Gisquet who sent confirmed rioters back to their homes in the name of kindness. _It is easy to be kind, the difficulty lies in being just._ He had to stand by that, he had nothing else, it had all been stripped from him, taken by Valjean. Valjean… What would Valjean do when faced with this conundrum? It was he after all who had provoked Javert into this descent of questioning morals when he had no business to. Valjean would consider the opinions of the vulnerable and the outcast, not just the concerns of those at the top of the chain, Valjean would want to save this young woman from despair, Valjean who would agree to never see his daughter again if it meant she could live her own life of happiness and freedom. Yes, that is who Valjean would side with. So surely he must do the opposite? But what if Gisquet was merely sensitive to certain leanings, and the young man did mean the young woman ill, what then? He almost thought he had worked it out, but then Valjean would come swimming to his side and whisper in his ear that everything was corrupt, everything was inside out and rotten, and he’d have to start again.

“Well? Javert?”

“We find the girl.”

“We do? Why, yes, of course we do, this upstanding commander of the law has requested we seek his stolen property, and we as agents of that very law must do so. Is that right?”

“No,” Javert said slowly. “We find her because it is our duty to protect all the citizens of Paris.”

“Go on.”

“You assume, based on your limited facts of the case, that she has fled of her own volition. The Judge, by your own judgment of character a man not wholly sound in mind, believes she has been taken against her will. There is of course a truth, and only one person who knows it, and until presented with that testimony we cannot decide the truth ourselves.”

“We find her because it is the only way of discovering the truth.”

Javert nodded. “Because it is the right thing to do.”

“Then enough philosophising, go find her and be quick about it!”

 

* * *

 

Valjean was not pleased to find Javert waiting for him outside his gates. He had half a mind not to unlock them and to simply turn back, he might perform an escape through the carefully hidden tunnel constructed beneath the small house at the end of the garden. He steeled his resolve and swallowed hard before opening the gate and spending time to close it and lock it before turning to face Javert.

“I was not expecting to see you.”

Javert didn’t respond to this observation but instead took hold of Valjean’s elbow in his stiff grip and steered him away from Rue Plumet. Valjean could have thrown him off, but allowed himself to be led instead.

“Are you well?” He asked. He hated the silences between them. They were painful and tense and he much preferred it when Javert was ranting on a tangent.

“I am quite well,” Javert said irritably. “I require some assistance.”

Javert didn’t elaborate further despite Valjean’s expectations. They walked at a quick pace through Paris’s cobbled streets down towards the river. It was early still and a man in a heavy coat and hat was walking between the gas lamps and extinguishing the flames. They descended the steps that led down to the river’s edge and Valjean followed in confusion. There was a small dock with a couple of boats moored, each bare of distinguishing marks. Valjean became uncomfortably aware that they were a mere few steps away from the place where he’d dragged Javert, his great coat weighed down with water from the Seine. He shifted on his feet.

“Inspector, please would you tell me what we are doing here?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I need the daylight.”

Valjean watched as Javert inspected every nook and crevice of the small dock, even laying down so he could peer between the wooden boards. He let out a frustrated growl when it became clear he hadn’t found what he’d wanted.

“Perhaps if you tell me what it is,” Valjean began nervously. “I might be able to help—”

Javert held up a hand. He darted suddenly towards the stoned wall behind the dock and started pressing his fingers to the individual bricks, stroking between them, it appeared as if he were trying to prise them apart. Soon Javert realised this wasn’t working and there was nothing to be found. He took a step back, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at the wall for a long time. Eventually he sniffed and turned to face Valjean.

“I want to ask you a question,” He said stiffly. He coughed uncomfortably and shifted his gaze to the rushing waters of the river. “It would have been easier to rescue that woman’s child if you had not attended the trial in Arras.”

There was a pause after this and Valjean waited patiently for Javert’s question, but none came and after a long period of silence he felt compelled to speak.

“It would not have been easier. More practical, yes. But easier upon my soul? No, you are mistaken Inspector.”

“You could have saved her, and then returned to confess.”

Valjean shook his head. Once he’d seen Cosette, playing beneath the table in that terrible Inn he knew he could never abandon her. He told himself that he would have left Cosette at the convent and then returned to reveal his identity, but deep inside he knew this to be a lie. It would not have been a simple decision, it would have weighed upon him heavily like a sin, and only after holding his soul to ransom could he have abandoned the little child whose tiny hands grasped at his own and refused to let go.

“I knew the moment I saw her that I needed to protect her, and I could not do that from Toulon.”

“I still do not understand why you would go to so much trouble to save her in the first place.” Javert appeared grim.

“What is this about Javert? Why have you brought me here to ask these questions?” Valjean bit his tongue because he realised he hadn’t used Javert’s title, but he remained silent. Javert looked distracted and stern enough not to have noticed this slip.

“I am looking for a girl who has gone missing.”

“I see. She went missing here?” He feared stating the obvious, they were by the river, the current was strong.

“No, she was being kept against her will by her guardian, and it would seem was taken from this state of affairs by her lover. And now? Now I do not know.”

“You wish for my advice?”

“No,” Javert said quickly. “I shall never want your advice. No, I believe you may have a perspective. Convicts hide in plain sight in this city, the question is where.”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you where her hiding place is just because I have also hidden in Paris.”

“I am not asking that.”

“Then I am not sure what you’re asking.”

Javert sighed and thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. His right fist closed around an oval object, hard with soft leather edges. He pulled out the miniature portrait in its black leather frame which hid a vividly yellow lock of hair. He stared at it for a few moments, turning it over in his palm, and then handed it to Valjean. Valjean kept looking at Javert, uneasy.

“That is the young woman in question.”

Valjean looked down then, and Javert noticed the slight raise in his brow, though incredibly small. “I don’t suppose you have seen her?”

Valjean breathed slowly. “I cannot say that I have,” He said calmly. Javert stared at him, his eyes piercing into Valjean’s, his lip pulling into a grimace.

“I can tell when you are lying.”

“I promise you I’ve never seen this woman.”

“Valjean.” Javert’s voice was dark. “I still have your life in my hands, I could still arrest you. I’m sure I could find an excuse to return another daughter to her legal father.”

Valjean blanched. “I will tell you, but do not threaten Cosette in front of me. I have no desire to hurt you, but for that…I would if it came to that.”

“Then tell me. I am listening.”

“The Judge gave you this?” Valjean gestured to the tiny painting.

“I never said he was a Judge.” Javert’s eyes had brightened and he had a smug air about him, he had picked up the scent. “Somehow I am not surprised that you are mixed up in all this, it is difficult to leave the past behind after all.”

“I am not mixed up in it,” Valjean said. “It barely concerns me, but the woman in this painting… it is a complicated tale.”

“I have time to hear it. Come.” Javert reached out for Valjean’s elbow and Valjean reluctantly let him take it. He found himself steered up the river steps and onto the quiet cobble streets. “I have other inquiries to make today,” Javert said. “You may tell me between stops.”

Javert wordlessly took the portrait back from Valjean’s loosely closed palm and shoved it back in his pocket. Valjean took this moment to shake Javert’s grip away and shortly after they fell into an even step. “Speak, Valjean.”

“That woman, she is not who you are looking for. The woman in the painting I am afraid to say is dead, and has been so for almost twenty long years.”

Javert frowned. “If you are spinning me a story to protect one of your convict friends I shall not continue to be so lenient.”

“It is the truth.”

Javert flashed a glance at Valjean. “Then why do you make it sound so fanciful?”

“It is not my intention.”

They were passing the market. Stalls were beginning to take shape in the form of white awnings and large wooden tables. Soon there would be a constant din as sellers shouted over one another in their attempts to flog their wares, brightly coloured fruits and vegetables littered the wooden tables and a group of blissfully ignorant chickens pecked around the wire pen set up by a butcher. A tall and pasty baker was attempting to make conversation with a young and pretty fruit seller. Valjean watched as a tiny child, barely past ten by the look of his scrawny appearance, nipped behind the baker and seized a roll, escaping quickly before the baker could notice a thing. Javert seemed distracted, his gaze pointed in the other direction. Valjean was grateful for this.

“It is a sad story,” He said. “Not fanciful.”

“Then tell it. You knew this woman?”

“No, I knew her husband.”

“Knew, or know?”

Valjean realised he had been silent too long as he pondered his answer, so he told the truth. “We are still acquainted, but I cannot say I know him well. We met briefly in Toulon, passing in the chain gang, he was a bitter man then, I believe he has changed.”

“It is the punishment that does that you see, the chain gang is good for a man’s spirit.”

Valjean ignored this, though it caused a spike in his chest. “He recognised me before I noticed him, we spoke for a long time on that day, I felt we were similar in a certain way.”

“What way?”

_Both guilty of crimes we did not commit._

“Just that we had both known the law at its most harsh. He’d had to leave his wife behind and when he returned to Paris she had died. He showed me that same painting, it is a copy of a larger one.” Valjean paused for a moment. “From what he told me, he seemed inclined to believe that the Judge had been the cause of his wife’s death, and he now has control of his daughter.”

“Legally he has no claim to her,” Javert said. He seemed unaffected by the story despite its contents. He flinched occasionally at the sharp chill of the crisp day, but beyond that his emotions were unreadable.

“Legally no, but it can be hard to see the good in some lawful things.”

The man Javert had seen helping Johanna from the boat had been young, not a hardened father aged in the bagne. Yet he was finding further clarity in the case. It would not be beyond reason to suspect that this man had allowed the woman and her thief to take refuge under his wing.

“The daughter must take after the mother,” Javert said. “The Judge was confident when he handed me the portrait, they must bare striking similarities.”

“I suppose they must.”

“When did you last see this man?”

“It has been longer than a month. He invited me for a shave.”

Javert stopped in the middle of the street, a carriage swerved to avoid him the driver cursing in his wake. “A shave? Most unusual indeed.”

“Not when you are a barber by profession.”

Javert glanced at Valjean and narrowed his eyes. He tried to imagine Valjean willingly allowing a blade to scrape his neck “You accepted his offer?”

“Of course. He offered as an old friend.”

“And was he good at it?”

Valjean smiled. “I don’t see how that is relevant, but yes, it was the closest shave I ever received.”

“I see.” Javert powered off back along the street and Valjean followed in his footsteps. “Take me to him.” It came as a command, one that Javert was silently challenging Valjean to refuse. Yet Valjean simply looked meek and began to guide Javert in the direction of Rue Fleet. It was a narrow street, the buildings resting on each other, when one toppled the whole lot would crumble. There were alleyways every few houses down, some that led out into a further web of streets and others that led to dead ends. The last building on the left bore the large lettering of a pie shop, the sign recently painted, the words large and red. To the side was a rickety staircase with a black banister leading up to an unassuming door where a simple and plain sign informed the viewer that within worked a barber named Sweeney Todd.

“Wait for me here,” Javert said firmly. Valjean looked down to where Javert’s hand was pressed against his chest. He looked up into the dark eyes and nodded slowly.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to ask some questions, but without you at first. A man may reveal things to strangers he struggles to reveal to friends.” Javert looked at Valjean to see him frowning and this frustrated him. “I am an Inspector, I know these things.”

“I will wait for you here,” Valjean said. Javert stared at him for a few moments more then nodded solemnly and disappeared up the stairs. The bell rung as he entered and found a small waiting room with a wooden bench. There was an odd looking sketch, framed and hung on the wall, and Javert couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. A few seconds later the door within opened and a man emerged cleaning his hands with a towel.

“Monsieur Todd?” Javert inquired, and the man nodded in response. He seemed to look behind Javert even as he stared right at him. “I am here for a shave,” Javert said simply, removing his hat as he did so.

“You are alone?”

Javert nodded. “Quite alone Monsieur, and quite in need of a shave.”

Sweeney gave him a cursory glance. His movements were slow and stiff, impractical, and Javert noticed the limp of a convict from the chain gang. At least he was earning an honest living, Javert thought, an honest wage under his honest name. He approved of that.

“I am just finishing with a customer,” Sweeney said after he had inspected Javert with his eyes for long enough. “I won’t be long.”

Javert hung his hat and coat on a hook by the door then took a seat on the wooden bench. He stared a little longer at the framed sketch, but not understanding it frustrated him so he looked away. About a minute later Sweeney returned and held the door open for Javert. The room inside was large, spacious, plenty of room for more than just the single barber’s chair that stood in the centre. Large windows let in sufficient light from the outside world negating the use of the burning candles that hung in brackets about the walls.

“Please take a seat Monsieur.” Javert did so and held back a flinch as Sweeney draped an apron over him. “Just a shave? Or perhaps a trimming of the hair too.”

“A shave will be plenty.”

“Of course Monsieur.”

Javert watched as Sweeney went over to a small table that held a variety of razors in different sizes, cream and brushes, a pile of towels. Sweeney had picked up one of the razors by the handle and run the tip of his index finger down the back of the blade. Javert watched the slight quirk of his lip.

“Have you been a barber long?”

“For many years Monsieur.” Sweeney spoke constantly in a low whisper that was unnerving but caused a listener to be very quiet and attentive whenever he spoke. Javert considered it a clever tactic.

“It has always been your trade?”

“Yes Monsieur, I have kept up my skills since I was first an apprentice.”

He approached Javert and began to lather his face with the cream and brush. Javert remained still and stoic throughout the process, his fingertips resting lightly on the arms of the chair, he was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“Nothing has stopped you in all that time?” Javert asked, his voice steady and innocent. “A man such as you must find time for a wife, perhaps children.”

“That is true.” Sweeney lay down the brush and took up the razor again, he held it close to Javert’s throat, the blade barely a millimetre’s distance from skin. “And you Monsieur? Have you any children?”

“None,” Javert said, and he saw instantly the firmness in Sweeney’s hand as he gripped the blade with a greater purpose, as if this answer had been the spur Sweeney was waiting for. His hand hesitated barely a moment, he drew his blade to the side of Javert’s neck, steadied himself for the first stroke, tightened his grip in readiness, and then, the softest of knocks on the door. Both heads turned to see Valjean, standing sheepishly in the entrance.

“Valjean,” Sweeney said in surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Sorry.” Valjean stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “It was just so very cold outside.”

Javert ripped the towel from his neck and wiped his face. “No, it is just your intention to compromise everything I do.”

“You know this man Valjean? He is a friend of yours?” Sweeney was frozen in place, his hand still gripping the blade. “You should have said! God damn you!” He dropped the blade onto the table as if it were engulfed in flames.

“You have deprived me of my investigation,” Javert said. “And deprived me of a good shave too.”

“Oh indeed that,” Sweeney said shaking his head. “Valjean, I do a favour for you and you do many for me, and by God the way you would have let me repay you.” He was still shaking his head as Valjean bit his lip with his head bowed in apology.

“Well then.” Javert stood to his full height and folded his arms. “Since all pretense is broken I might as well ask my question plainly.”

“Who is this Valjean?”

Valjean gestured weakly. “This is Inspector Javert, he’s looking for…someone.”

“Inspector? You bring the police to my door?” Sweeney muttered something under his breath. “You should both leave.”

“We should,” Javert concurred. “But first, where are you hiding your daughter?”

A pause.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I see.” Valjean looked to Javert for some assistance deciphering the situation, but Javert’s jaw was set and his expression unreadable. “Then I thank you for your time Monsieur, we shall leave you in peace.”

Javert brushed past Valjean who frowned in confusion, and put his hat and coat on in silence. He tipped his hat politely to the barber then held the outer door open for Valjean to pass through.

Once out on the street Javert paused and took hold of Valjean’s arm. Valjean let himself be pulled beneath the staircase and under the shelter of the red awning above the pie shop.

“You believed him? That he doesn’t know anything about where his daughter is?”

“Of course not, what do you take me for? A fool?”

“Then why not interrogate him?”

Javert smiled, it was a dark thing. “It is the habit of pick pockets to announce to a crowd that a pick pocket is operating in the area and to be careful of their possessions.”

“A little counter-intuitive,” Valjean replied.

“You might think so, but when confronted with the idea that his wallet might be missing, a man is inclined to feel for it. You understand?”

“Not really.”

“By feeling, he tells the pick pocket exactly where he is keeping his wallet, and the very act of feeling its presence reassures him, for a brief few moments he lets his guard down. You see now?”

Javert was pressed against the wall, deep into the shadows, and he had Valjean pressed against it too, his arm reaching out across his chest.

“A little, but I don’t see how it applies here.”

Smiling, Javert watched as a woman emerged from the pie shop door and hung an open sign on the handle. “Monsieur Todd felt for his wallet.”

Before Valjean could ask what he meant Javert had darted away from the wall towards the shop and had disappeared inside. Valjean considered not following, but he had to admit he was curious, and there was a small part of him compelled to head towards the danger. Inside, Javert was surveying the shop with a casual, his eyes sweeping the paneled walls and slipped under chairs. Valjean watched Javert’s mind work. It was a strange thing to witness. After a while the woman behind the counter grew visibly impatient, and with a pastry knife in her hand she cut a formidable figure.

“Are you here for a pie Monsieur?”

“No,” Javert said calmly.

“Then you can get out.”

“I think not.” Javert pulled his badge from his inner pocket and smiled baring his teeth. “I will search this place.”

“No you won’t.”

Javert had the audacity to laugh and Valjean could only stare at him.

“And why is that the case Madame?” He still appeared amused.

“I know you need warrants for such things. It’s only lawful.”

Javert didn’t seem too fazed by the accusation. He made a placating gesture with his hands. “A woman who knows about such laws is surely a woman who has something to hide.”

“I know my rights, few enough as it is.”

Javert stared her down, found his intimidation wasn’t working, and finally laughed and shook his head. “No matter, you shall see me again before the day’s out. Perhaps you’ll tidy the place for my return.”

He turned on his heel and left the shop, dragging Valjean with him.

They walked in silence for at least a mile before Valjean found the courage to speak up. “She’s in the pie shop downstairs then?”

“Of course she is, you saw what Monsieur Todd did.”

“Did I?”

Javert sighed. “He looked down. I asked where she was and instantly he glanced to the floor. The house is old enough that there’s not enough trapping space between the attic room and the room beneath, so she is below. And you must have seen the walls.”

“The walls?”

Javert crossed the street without looking so Valjean hurriedly looked both ways for the pair of them. “I’m not a policeman Javert, I don’t see these things.”

“But you are a criminal, and criminals view the world through the same lens.”

“Even so, will you tell me about the walls anyway?”

Javert glanced down at Valjean with a look of frustration. “One was clearly fake. How could you miss that?”

“How could you tell?”

“Damp across the rest, pooling by the floorboards, but one side completely clear of rot as if it were hollow on the other side, no water sliding through the gaps of the house. And the floor beneath, scraped in a pattern to suggest one of the panels opens, like a door. Anyone would know.”

 _Only you_ , Valjean wanted to say.

When they reached the Prefecture the sun was high in the sky, reflecting pale strips of light on the white marble steps. Javert confidently strode to the doors but turned when he reached them. “Why are you still following me?”

Valjean was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple enough question.”

“Yes, but— Javert, I didn’t realise I was allowed to leave.”

“What do you mean? You’re a free man aren’t you? At least you waltz about Paris pretending to be. Surely you have things to be doing.”

Valjean bit his tongue and shook his head. “I don’t know how to think around you, how to act, how to speak.”

“That is hardly my concern.”

“I thought you wanted my help with the case.”

“You gave it, and I’m grateful.” Javert’s lip twisted. “But we are done for today.”

“Aren’t you getting the warrant?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you like me to wait here?”

“What for?”

Valjean felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch Javert to see if he were still made of substance. “I’d wait until you came out and we’d go back and search it together.”

Javert shook his head. “Well we’re not doing that today, obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Anything hidden behind that wall will have gone by the time we return. No, we leave it for a period of time, a week perhaps, they’ll feel safe enough to put whatever they were hiding back, and _then_ we search. In the meantime I’ll send out a continuous watch on the building.”

“Your methods are very strange.”

“Have a care Valjean.”

Valjean looked over his shoulder, but any passer by who might have heard his name kept walking in their own personal mission. “You must be careful about using that name.”

“Oh, must I?” Javert laughed baring his teeth. “You are not in a position to make requests from me. Did I not hear Monsieur Todd call you by that name?”

“I told you, he knows me from my past life.”

Javert turned and took hold of Valjean’s forearm, so tight that it made him wince at the sharpness. “Your past life? It is your present life. You will always be what you were, I do not care about your mercy,” Javert hissed. “It means nothing to me. That is not why I-… not why…” He snatched his grip away as if he had been burned. “Be gone with you.”

“I do not know what you want from me.”

“Can you not hear? I want you gone. Leave!”

Javert watched Valjean hesitate for a moment, and then with a cautious stumble he descended the Prefecture steps. Javert watched him until he had disappeared from view.

* * *

 

It was late afternoon, four days later, and Javert was watching his men manhandle a thief into a jail cell when he next thought of Valjean. One of his junior officers had been smirking to himself throughout the arrest and was now openly laughing. It was a mirth shared by the other officers, but Javert stood and watched grimly. It would be hypocritical of himself to disapprove when he himself at laughed in the face of many a criminal, but it was the sight of the thief on his knees and pleading that had struck a chord within him. Javert was not a sympathetic man and it was not sympathy that he felt now.

“Stop that,” He said finally to the officer. The man snapped his mouth shut instantly and turned white as he beheld Javert’s grim stare.

Javert was in a foul mood as he filled out the report and filed it away correctly, and he thought of Valjean again. The warrant for the house on Rue Fleet lay on his desk. He had a mind to use it this very evening, and so he entered Gisquet’s office following a polite knock.

“Monsieur, I require some men for tonight.”

Gisquet had been standing by the fireplace and examining his reflection in the mirror above it. He spoke to Javert’s reflection rather than turn round. “Do you now? I’m sure I can spare a few.”

“A regiment of the National Guard would be best for my purposes.”

“I trust you know best. Which case?” Javert caught Gisquet’s eye squarely in the mirror. Gisquet smiled, his demeanor changing instantly. “Oh good, Monsieur Turpin has come to my office every day this week you know. He’s getting impatient.”

“I believe we will find her tonight.”

“That is good news indeed.” Gisquet ran a hand through his hair and then across his jaw. He winced.

“Are you alright Monsieur?”

“What? Oh, oh yes, quite fine, I just cut myself shaving. Nothing to worry about. My usual barber is unfortunately absent and I can’t quite bring myself to go to anyone else.” He sighed and turned from the mirror, went to his desk and opened a draw. He took out an envelope that had been opened, and held it out for Javert to take. Javert caught sight of the flamboyant cursive. He tucked it inside his coat pocket.

“I have a suggestion Monsieur, a barber.”

“Oh yes?”

“I have it on good authority that he performs an excellent service.” Javert gave the address of the house on Rue Fleet. Gisquet was smiling at him curiously.

“Perhaps I shall pay him a visit this afternoon.” He patted Javert on the shoulder and nodded as he bowed by means of exit. Javert felt the letter pressing against him in his pocket and he thought of Valjean again. He almost hoped he wouldn’t come when his National Guard regiment was summoned, but dutifully he came, his uniform perfect and a rifle in his hand. Javert growled to himself before briefing them all on the raid. His spies had been useful and he felt calm and collected. He waited out the afternoon, he wanted it to be dark. He watched the clock that hung high on the Prefecture wall until the peeling chimes told him it was six. He signed for his men to leave, but as he turned to face the entrance the door to the Prefecture swung open, and on steady steps marked by the silver cane came Judge Turpin. The man had a strange gleam in his eye, a curl at his lip. It was a strange expression.

“Monsieur.” Javert went to greet him. “A stroke of luck you visiting us at this hour, I have good news regarding—”

“I have no need of you fools.” The Judges voice was deep, its imperious rumble bled across the Prefecture floor. “You are all useless, but you especially.”

“I-…But Monsieur—”

“Where is the Prefect? I shall speak to him now.”

“Monsieur Gisquet is not in Monsieur.”

“And where does he keep this hour?”

“He is with a barber,” Javert said before he could stop himself. The Judge exerted his words with such efficient authority that he compelled an answer from Javert.

The Judge barked a single syllable laugh. “What an amusing coincidence.”

“Monsieur?”

“A barber has my ward, and he is returning her to me this very evening.”

“Yes,” Javert said slowly. “That is what-…yes…”

“He came to me directly. I have nothing more to say to you imbeciles, I shall call on the Prefect himself to express my displeasure with how my case has been handled on the morrow.”

The judge banged his cane loudly on the marble floor and silence followed the long echo. He held his head high as he marched out the building and back onto the street. Javert stared for a moment and then turned to the congregation of guards that were staring with him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Well don’t just stand there,” He said to them. “There’s no need for you now, be off home.”

There was a moment of confused silence before anyone moved, but slowly the guards began to gather their coats and holster their rifles and filter out of the building. Valjean raised an eyebrow at Javert then turned to leave. Javert stopped him with an outstretched arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home?”

“I didn’t tell you to go anywhere.”

Valjean stayed still for a few seconds before slowly lowered his rifle. “Well then,” He said, to break the silence if nothing else.

“I have no need of your ‘ _well then_ ’. What does this mean?”

“Perhaps Monsieur Todd is attempting peace.”

“Hmm.” Javert thought for a moment. “You think he means to barter?”

“It doesn’t seem unlikely. The Judge was very confident.”

“He was arrogant, there is a difference.”

There was silence for a few moments more.

“I think we should go anyway,” Valjean said.

“Of course we should.” Javert steepled his fingers and pressed them to his brow. “But not so soon, it can’t look like we’re following him. I suppose we could always go on the pretense of dining in that strange establishment beneath.”

“Monsieur Todd has told me before not to eat those pies.”

“Why not?”

Valjean laughed. “He says Mrs Lovett bakes cats into them. He said it to me so seriously I believe it must be true.”

“He told you not to eat the pies,” Javert murmured softly. A fake wall, a downward flash of eyes, a steadied blade, _men disappear up and down Rue Fleet and they do nothing!_ Suddenly his eyes widened. “He told you…not to eat the pies.”

He rose, startled in his stillness for a moment, then he grasped Valjean’s elbow and pulled him towards the door and out onto the street.

“Javert?”

Javert hailed a carriage and hauled Valjean into it before Valjean could catch his breath. Javert was staring straight ahead, his eyes wide and wild, Valjean feared he might have turned a little mad.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“That he told me not to eat the pies? I didn’t think it was important.”

“Not important?” Javert threw his hands up in frustration. “It is the most important thing!”

Valjean touched Javert’s arm carefully. “Are you sure you’re quite well?”

“Of course, I’m fine, but don’t you see? We let the Judge walk to his death and didn’t stop him. _You_ , you didn’t stop him.”

“His death? Javert, you’ve lost me.”

Javert let out an irritable growl and leaned out the carriage window to shout at the driver to go faster. “We are fools, just like he said.”

“Please tell me why we are fools, I am rather inclined to agree at the moment.”

“Men never change, criminals never change, they never change. You told me he was your _friend_.”

“I said I knew him once.”

“He is a murderer.”

Valjean fell silent. He worried at his bottom lip nervously. “I had companions who had done unspeakable things, but in the bagne we were all one and the same, there was no differentiating between a petty thief and a man who slaughtered his fellow man.”

“Did you not think to mention it?” The carriage went over a bump in the street and it seemed to shake something within Javert. He froze and blanched white. _Monsieur Gisquet_. “Oh good God.”

“What?”

“God what have I done?”

He withdrew his pistol from his waist and cocked it in readiness. His eyes were blazing now. There was anger and frustration, but now fear, and then he looked at Valjean whose own fear looked back. The carriage drew to a halt and Javert leapt out with Valjean following shortly after. He trained the pistol straight ahead as he bolted up the stairs that led to barber’s lodgings, kicking the rotten wood door down in one strong kick. The room was bare. He moved to the chair in the centre, touched the surface, his hand came back wet and red. He stared down at the blood on his fingertips and for a moment found he could not move as guilt flowed freely through his veins. He’d done this, he’d murdered his Prefect, it was his fault.

“Javert!”

He jumped and turned to Valjean who was standing by the door his face white as a sheet. There was blood on his hand, spreading onto his white cuff. Javert stared at the red in the darkness, his mind clouding. “Javert, downstairs, we’re…we’re too late.”

“I know,” Javert found himself saying. “I know.”

Valjean swayed slightly and fell against the door frame. Javert hurried over to steady him, his hands stiff on Valjean’s shoulders, he felt just as close to collapse. “I have to go after Monsieur Todd, I have to find him, it’s the best I can do.”

He began to descend the stairs, two at a time, but Valjean was following him, reaching out to him. “Javert wait!”

He’s made it to the door to the pie shop, it was open, resting on a broken hinge. Darkness swelled inside and Javert steeled himself as he plunged in. The stench hit his nose before he could see what caused it, but when his eyes adjusted he staggered slightly at the sight. He had never seen so much blood, it seemed to run in rivers across the shop floor. Valjean was by his side, tugging at his arm, pulling him back, bringing him to the cool fresh air of the night, and Javert heaved in a breath of clean oxygen as his head spun.

“We’re too late Javert, it’s too late.”

“All of them,” Javert said softly. “I don’t understand. How?”

Valjean was still pulling on his arm, pulling him away from the slaughter. Something was still compelling Javert to run in, jump into those bloody waters, even though there was no one left to save. What could he tell his men? He crumpled in on himself and felt the sharp crease of folded paper press a line into his chest. _God_ , what would he tell _Chabouillet_?

His feet were carrying him backwards despite his heart’s willingness to stay rooted to the spot and his body’s desperation to lurch forward. There was suddenly a stone wall against the back of his knees and he bent double and turned, leaning on it, retching over the edge of the precipice into the running waters of the Seine below. Had Valjean dragged him all this way? He heard footsteps, they must have been Valjean’s, but no, Valjean was beside him, holding his hair out the way, stroking his back. He stared down, saw the black flowing waters, the dock, two figures running. The wind blew strong and a small hand moved too late to catch a cap worn low on the brow. It blew back across the dock, a cascade of yellow curls falling behind. The woman turned instinctively, her eyes meeting Javert’s for just a moment, before the other dark figure grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

* * *

 

He must have fainted shortly after that because he didn’t remember anything else until he was suddenly surrounded by a lot more movement. There were loud voices above him, shouts and groans, and plenty of feet trampling past. He was sitting with his head between his legs and Valjean was still next to him, like a shadow he couldn’t shake. He heard Valjean explaining what had happened, heard the explanation repeated over and over, but it didn’t seem any more real. Javert was too disgusted in himself to care.

“And there was nothing to be done?” The voice came from far above Javert, like an echoing God in the clouds.

“It was too late. I checked their pulses.” This voice came from close beside him, almost as if it came from within him. Javert reminded himself to tell Valjean to get out of his head at the earliest opportunity.

“A shame. A shame too that none of them will be missed.”

“Monsieur?”

“A poor old beggar woman, an ex-convict, a piemaker, and a Judge. No, no one shall miss them, this house will be occupied by someone else and the story will fade in the wind. How long has he been like that?”

“Coming to an hour Monsieur.”

“All because of some blood?”

“Not quite.”

“Javert, stop this nonsense.” A snap in his face. He glanced up. The moon was high in the sky, the stars twinkling like diamonds against black velvet. He could still see all that red at the edges of his blurred vision and Gisquet’s face, smiling, smiling as if he weren’t dead, smiling as if he were right in front of him. “Javert!”

“Monsieur…” Javert frowned. He felt his hand being squeezed. Part of him hoped it was Valjean. “I thought…”

“Yes?”

“I thought you were dead.”

“What on earth would you think that for?”

“I sent you to…I-…” He gestured weakly.

Gisquet laughed. “Oh, my dear Inspector, it’s sweet of you to recommend me quaint barbershops, but I am a government employee, I can’t be seen going just anywhere now can I? I had no intention of visiting your friend, quite lucky considering he turned out to be a mass-murderer.”

“Oh.”

“You do amuse me, Paris’s finest after all. Besides, my barber has sent word that he will be returning to the city. He is sick of the sunshine and the low crime rate. Although, when you do tell him the story, I’d leave out the part involving your breakdown following my fictional death.”

“Yes Monsieur.”

“Good man.”

There was bustle around them, constant movement, but Javert felt Valjean steady beside him.

“Can you stand?”

He turned and saw Valjean next to him, he looked down and saw his hand tight in Valjean’s. He quickly snapped it back. “What are you still doing here?”

“You haven’t dismissed me.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

Valjean smiled and gently took Javert’s hand back in his own. “You can’t get rid of me that easily I’m afraid.”

Javert groaned. “I made a mess of this.”

“I’m not sure what you could have done to solve it.”

“The girl,” Javert murmured softly. “I could have saved the girl.”

“I know very little of love, and I doubt you know much either, but sometimes it is best to trust it blindly.”

“I think you know a lot about love,” Javert said with indignation. “I think you love far too strongly.”

“Perhaps.”

Javert looked at Valjean’s hand still clasped in his own. He resented it, but he still felt light-headed and weak from vomiting up half his stomach and fainting. Besides, there would be time to arrest Valjean tomorrow, until then he would just hold tight to Valjean’s hand to ensure he didn’t get away.


End file.
